


Rescue

by Write_like_an_American



Series: Gotg Prompt Fic [7]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (also kinda), (kinda), (or the intergalactic equivalent), Desert Island Fic, Heat Stroke, M/M, Rescue, Saal Is A Big Damn Hero, yondu is a dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 11:59:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4665753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>
  <strong>Prompt fic from my tumblr - anonymous prompt, Kraglin/Yondu, 'Rescue'. I decided to add Saal because no one asked for him. And I was in the mood. I've never actually read the comics which involve him, so his character's kinda a mash-up of what we see in the film and a bit of my own invention. As always, Yondu, Kraglin, Dey and him belong to Marvel.</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>Enjoy~</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong></strong>
</p>
    </blockquote>





	Rescue

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt fic from my tumblr - anonymous prompt, Kraglin/Yondu, 'Rescue'. I decided to add Saal because no one asked for him. And I was in the mood. I've never actually read the comics which involve him, so his character's kinda a mash-up of what we see in the film and a bit of my own invention. As always, Yondu, Kraglin, Dey and him belong to Marvel.**
> 
> **Enjoy~**
> 
> ****

Rule Number One – Ravagers don’t turn back for nobody.

Actually, Rule Number One is ‘steal from everybody’. Rule Number Two is a caveat – ‘except each other’ – and Rules Number Three and Four relate to the proper and improper processes for okaying a job and divvying up shares. No solo bounty gigs on a crew. All in all, ‘Ravagers don’t wait for laggers’ clocks in at around Seven. Unfortunately for Kraglin, that doesn’t make it any less official.

“Fuck,” he says, staring at the scorched rectangle of sand that had, until five minutes ago, sat under the backburner of an M-shuttle.

The sun pummels the shaved flanks of his skull. Nearest shelter’s a rock three miles back – he’d passed it on the trek over the dunes, having been separated from the main group during a sandstorm that’d whipped across the planes like a dustdevil on steroids. Should he retrace his steps? Well, there ain’t no point lurking about here for some imaginary _rescue_ or nothing. Nope. Unless he develops sudden and miraculous divining abilities, this heat will sweat him to a husk. Kraglin uncinches his supply belt a notch, allowing the sweat-stripe painted across his belly to cool. He sends a heartfelt middle-finger at the trailing shuttle vapours high above, at this damn stupid job, his stupid captain, and the galaxy in general, and starts the uphill trudge under the blazing purple sky.

So he’s been left. Big fucking deal. Happens to everyone at some point.

But Kraglin, by dint of being captain’s most-trusted-slash-most-fucked who only tends to leave his side for piss-breaks, has thus far managed to avoid this inevitability. So while the reality of the situation is glaring him right in the face – scoured in the barren tracts of wasteland that stretch for miles on every side, in fact – Kraglin is still feeling his way through the emotional response.

Okay, so he’s… what? A bit numb?

Kinda pissed off?

A wee bit _abandoned_ , literally and figuratively? Because fuck, he knows they’re on a schedule, what with this planet being rigged to speed-dial the Nova corps whenever extraterrestrial ships land – special precautions, given that it’s not only of the uncontacted Terran-designation, but boasts a vibranium-rich core. But honestly, he’d figured Yondu would _wait five fucking minutes_.

Unless Yondu thought he was dead.

Kraglin swallows through the sand in his throat. That vein of thought ain’t helping nobody. So he dulls his brain to its rawest functions – _walk, pant, sweat, survive_. He rations his water to sips, the canteen bouncing three-quarters empty on his hip. That’s gonna leave bruises, but Kraglin doggedly bears it – it’s a reminder of the direness of the situation, one which percolates the haze of heat exhaustion seeping into his skull.

Thankfully, he knows he won’t have long to languish. Either the Nova corps will show up to prosecute him, or nightfall will come and he’ll be eaten by the natives. Right now, all he’s gotta focus on is making it to that rock.

Step. Step. Step.

Grains skid under his boots. He’s boiling in his leathers, steam-cooked, face an unhealthy pink – but he doesn’t dare take them off, not with the sun already having scalded half the skin off the back of his neck. Atmosphere’s thin. Star’s small but wicked fierce, and this hunk of rock’s closest to it. No wonder the natives spend their daytimes burrowed into the hot bright sand.

The dunes drain perpetually downwards, shifted by his gravity and the tug of the infernal wind. Sand scrapes his face, peppering him with a thousand needles – and as Kraglin lifts a hand to fend them off, his boot sinks into a mound of loose sediment and he teeters for a valiant second before falling.

Thump.

Kraglin leaves a sidewinder trail down the side of the dune. Lands in a gully, sending up a billowing mushroom cloud. The imprints of his scrawny body rise like rungs of a ladder; mocking him, taunting his inability to climb them.

Kraglin pulls his head out of the sand with a groan. Shakes powder from his ears. Then staggers to his feet, sweat mingling with the silt that cakes the pores of his nose. Fuck the whole damn galaxy. This ain’t getting him down. He narrows his eyes at the mountain’s apex, alive with heat-shimmer mirage, and he _runs_.

________________________________________

“What in Nova Prime’s name…”

Saal docks the shuttle besides the Ravager. Or rather, he docks it besides where the life signal informs him that a Ravager is. Given that all that’s visible of them beneath the shifting sandgrains is a scrap of red leather and a boot, he’s operating mostly on guesswork, and he can only hope that he doesn’t accidentally put the landing gear through their cranium. That’d put a crimp in his outstanding record, when the Prime’s scouting for someone to promote.

“We got us a live one,” he says into his comm. Because that is, against all odds, what his readings are telling him. “Straggler. Their _companions_ ,” (the word is laced with the acid edge of a sneer) “- appear to have left without them.”

“No honor among thieves,” Dey singsongs on the other end of the line. He’s tucked behind his desk at the barracks, no doubt blowing up the holo-image projection of Ilania and the sprog that he keeps on his desk until he can coo over their nostril hairs. Man’s been walking on moonbeams since his little girl was born – a screechy and resplendently fuchsia thing that Saal had been forced to hold for five whole seconds at the naming ceremony, while Dey and his wife made doe-eyed guppy-kisses at each other, and Irani Rael, deputy to the Prime herself, gushed five times in one minute that _isn’t she just the sweetest cherub you’ve ever seen?_ Saal, tight-lipped, had made some noncommittal noise of agreement as the tyke relieved herself over his polished uniform chest-piece.

Babies are irritating. Smelly. No respect for law and order. When he’d subtly voiced his thoughts on the matter to his partner, back when Dey was still only toying with the concept of fatherhood, Dey had chuckled in that infuriatingly benign way of his, clapped Saal on the shoulder, and informed him that he’d been a child once too. Saal remained in adamant denial – he’d been a _young adult_ , there was a difference. But the fact remained. Children were a nuisance. And a distracting one. Look, even he’s getting sidetracked – and he’s got a Ravager to convict, log, and deliver to the Kyln.

Might even save his worthless hide first.

Saal hops onto the sand. The first thing he registers is heat. Peeling back the shuttlegate is like opening an industrial oven: a rasping dry rush, a physical impact that punches the air from his lungs and slicks his hair to his forehead almost instantly. There’s not a glimmer of humidity or moisture to be found, barring his sweat. That’d be leached out in a matter of hours, if he stayed put. All the more reason to get on with this.

Saal squats over the Ravager’s withered husk, and wiggles the boot to see if he’s likely to face opposition. Nothing. Determining that the man’s either unconscious, too dehydrated to move, or smart enough to take the rescue for what it is, Saal unclasps a trowel-shaped charm from his belt and thumbs the dial until a full-sized shovel emerges, built out of interlocking close-weave photon particles. He sets his shoe against the edge. Positions it over where logic suggests there will be a shoulder, and begins to dig.

Saal doesn’t, as a rule, pity Scum. But his lips blister a little in sympathy as he yanks the Ravager’s head out of the sand-dune by the helpful tuft of hair that seems to have been cultivated for this precise purpose; the skin on the back of the man’s neck peels like flaky pastry.

Once Saal’s cleared his torso, he finds a belt with a little give, digs his heels into the spilling sediment and _heaves_ the Ravager free. His empty canteen bats gently in the breeze. The closest this planet comes to liquid is the mirages shimmering on the horizon. They’re fading, as the mudball creaks around on its axis and delivers them into the thirty-six hour night. Night is reign of the lizard creatures that dwell beneath the surface during the scorching noon-times and emerge to wage an endless primitive war only once the ghostly moons have risen: three of them, which hang side-by-side in the sky like balls on a Newton’s Cradle. It’s a simple method of moderating body temperature, but an effective one. Whether the Ravager fell into that dune or buried himself, the cool blanket and minimal shade has saved his life.

Saal huffs and grumbles at having to complete the job. But while this Scum deserves the Kyln-sentence that Rael has pre-emptively sanctioned, leaving him to perish on this desert rock is too callous, even by Saal’s standards. Especially when the man’s so-called crew have done just that.

The lanky man – Hraxian, by the teeth – stirs when Saal grips his armoured shoulder plating and starts the weary, sweat-drenched slog to his shuttle. His groan is an arid crack.

“Shut up,” Saal orders.

The man’s eyes roll about their bloodshot sockets. His boots drag through the sand, tracing a pair of wobbling parallel lines that will be devoured by the shifting dune before nightfall. For some unfathomable reason, he’s smiling. “Sure cap’n,” he slurs.

________________________________________

Saal deposits the Ravager on the floor. Sneers when he shamelessly rubs himself over the cool metal, a sigh shrinking his scrawny body like a deflating hairy sausage-balloon. He considers tazing him there and then, but honestly, the man’s no danger, not even to himself. And facial recognition matches faster when it’s got a moving subject to analyse.

Saal nudges the Ravager upright with his boot. “Kneel. Head up.” The man rolls with the motion, all clumsy angles, spilling an entire beach out of the creases in his leather jacket and his sleeves. He somehow manages to balance himself, and squints in mild confusion at Saal’s crotch.

“You wanna blowjob _now_? My mouth’s all dry…”

Being a seasoned law enforcement officer, Saal has suffered his fair share of propositions from convicts. The fools actually believe they can suck or fuck their way out of a jail sentence. He plants his boot on the Ravager’s shoulder, and returns him to the floor. “On second thoughts, you can stay down there.”

“Uh, sure thing, cap’n… S’kinda uncomfy though.” He wriggles his bony ass meaningfully over the slatted deck – as meaningfully as he can, with sizzled blood and a half-baked brain. “Can I grab a pillow?” Saal pinches his forehead, counts to ten, and replaces the shovel at his belt in favor of a chunky scanning box.

“You can look into this,” he tells the Ravager – who, say what you want about him, is certainly eager to please. “Turn your head from left to right. Slowly.”

The Ravager nods, knuckles turning white where the grip his pant legs. “Don’t think I could do it fast, sir. Stomach’s all…”

Thankfully, the sudden retch and heave provides enough motion for the scanner to finish its perusal of the Nova database criminal catalogue. Results pleep on Saal’s wristpiece. Stepping out of range of the sour, spreading puddle, Saal wrinkles his nose and accesses the relevant wanted poster.

His mouth doesn’t drop open. Not _quite_. Saal’s far too professional for that. He does however, permit himself the cock of a single steep-plucked brow.

“Kraglin Obfonteri. First mate of the Ravager flagship _Eclector_ , second-in-command of the fleet. What on earth are you doing out here?”

Obfonteri’s face, recognizably weaselly even under its accumulation of sunburn, sand, dried sweat, and now vomit, crinkles into confusion. “Usually takes a bit more work on my end to get you shouting my whole title,” he says. Wipes his mouth on the back of a crusty sleeve – _delightful_ ; although Saal supposes it can’t exactly get any dirtier – and shakily attempts to stand.

Of course. This compliance couldn’t last for ever. Saal readies his stun baton and advances, cuffs out-held. But when he fastens Obfonteri’s wrists behind his back, the Ravager doesn’t protest, even shifting to accommodate a little, chin bowed forwards against his chest, leather creaking as he fights to keep his balance. “Okay, captain. So you’re in one of _them_ moods. Look, I’m up for it an’ all, so long as ya let me lead next time - but think I could grab a drink first?”

Ugh. Why must people always insinuate that Nova Corpsmen are corrupt enough to lust after the prisoners left under their guard? Saal scoffs at the _suggestion_ that he would sully Nova-issue equipment in such a fashion, or take his vows of protection, loyalty, and integrity so lightly.

“You,” he says firmly, slapping Obfonteri over the back to tell him he’s done – the blow’s light and it avoids the worst of the sunburn, but it almost floors the wobbling Ravager. Saal’s half-tempted to breathalyse him; see if he can slap on another six months for Drunk and Disorderly Behaviour. “Are being arrested. And you don’t have to call me captain. Flattery is not going to help your cause.”

Obfonteri staggers to the nearest bench, shoulders swaying in an effort to keep his balance. “Usually does,” he rasps. “But whatever ya say, boss.” Passes his tongue over his cracked lips and summons just enough saliva to hoik a gob of gritty spit to join the chunky stomach contents already sliming Saal’s floor plating. “Ugh. Think I swallowed half the desert.”

“Don’t worry,” says Saal, crossing his arms. “You regurgitated most of it. All over my shuttle.”

“Sorry boss. I’ll clean that up later.” He’ll be in the Kyln later. Doesn’t he know that?

Saal frowns at him. Then squints when he notices how Obfonteri’s gaze keeps tracking listlessly to one side, and, with increasing worry, checks off the uneven pupils and the lack of fresh sweat that’s joining the general filth clinging to the Ravager’s cheeks. _Heatstroke_. Oh… _balls_. The man’s been nattering away; different species have different levels of tolerance to exposure, and Hraxians are, in most categories, among the hardiest. Apparently heat is not one of those categories. And damn, but Saal’s aiming for promotion; he can’t have a prisoner die on his hands, can’t face charges of neglect…

Saal’s so busy rootling through the emergency med-kit for intravenous fluid-patches and icepacks that he almost misses the shaky “How ‘bout that water, Yondu?”

________________________________________

Kraglin wakes with a pounding headache. Something’s dangling in the upper right hand corner of his vision. Something that looks suspiciously like the globular, swollen throat sac of a male bilgesnipe in rut.

Kraglin has a mild panic attack before the wavering lines consolidate, and the nodule reveals itself to be an IV-bag.

“Huh,” he croaks. Feels along his arm for the line, finds it feeding into the crook of his elbow. What does he remember…? The desert… Vanishing vapour trail of a Ravager ship high above… Then stumbling, crawling, collapsing… Shade of a dune… Scalding sand… Darkness. Then Yondu had come.

Or had it been another man? A taller man, with an updrawn lip and a dark haircut; the same man who’s standing in the military at-ease in front of his makeshift gurney and glaring down his substantial nose as if he’s smelt something particularly unpleasant?

The man with the Nova badge pinned to his jacket.

Kraglin flops a shaking hand over his eyes. “Shit,” he says.

“As you no longer appear to be hallucinating,” says the man, dour expression carved in marble, “I will repeat my verdict. You have been found guilty on one count of trespassing on a sanctioned Isolate-Zone Terran Planet, and doubtless many more felonies that have yet to come to light. Thus, by the power vested in me by Nova Prime, I act as judge and jury and condemn you to a decade in the Kyln. As your guilt is beyond all reasonable doubt, you may not appeal this decision. However, you may reduce your sentence, should you co-operate with me and the prison guards –“

Kraglin lets the words devolve into a muted drone. Excellent. He’s going to jail. Again.

Yondu hadn’t come back for him, and he’s going to jail, and – damn, he’s probably divulged all kinds of embarrassing shit to this swanky upperstate _policeman_ ; stuff that’ll earn him an arrow somewhere squishy if Yondu ever finds out; and he’s got heatstroke and the taste of his puke’s almost as strong as whatever fast-acting bio-solvent the corpsman’s doused his floor with, and it’s making Kraglin’s stomach turn _again_ , and…

This time, he manages to splash the corpsman’s shoes. That’s a victory, at least.

________________________________________

“Are we nearly there yet?”

Forget his complaints about children. Ravagers are infinitely worse.

Saal grits his teeth and attempts to assuage the brewing irritation. He utilizes all his tried and tested anger-management techniques: breathing heavy and deep, in for a breath, out for two; stretching his legs to their fullest extent and forcing every muscle in his body to relax and contract; blasting the air-con in an attempt to both block the smell of cleaning solvent and crack some of the dry sweat on his neck, which is just starting to itch. There’s sand in his boots, and his hair’s unsalvageable until he can next use a wash rack. And he’s got a Ravager lounged out on the bench behind the cockpit, scowling at the starscape and picking grumpily at his handcuffs.

Things can’t get worse, at least. Saal flicks on the autopilot, having coded their nav-system with a flightpath that’ll deliver them to the Kyln with no major diversions, and stalks into the back compartment to begin the interrogation. He’s got Udonta’s second-in-command here – Udonta, who’s been running a nifty little illegal mining rig off of a Terran world, whose future operations could be devastating to peace and order throughout the Nova empire. It would be stupid not to make the most of this opportunity…

…Hadn’t those handcuffs been fastened around the back?

Obfonteri innocently scratches his nose. _Ugh._ He hates Ravagers.

He hates them even more when there’s a sudden flurry from his radar – _ship approaching, M-class, Ravager-build_ – and a traction beam locks them into place.

“Since when did your crews _come back_ for one another?” he yells at Obfonteri, as the shuttle shudders down to its joists, thrusters feebly spurting before they fall victim to the lull of concentrated gravity. Obfonteri looks just as shocked as he is. Then, abruptly, joyful.

“Ya might wanna pretend t’be unconscious,” he tells Saal. Saal pulls himself up to his full height. Not likely. Obfonteri shrugs. “Hard way then.” And then he wrenches his wrists apart, jarring the energy drives on the cuffs; smartly dislocates both thumbs and shoves his hands through the gap before the adjusting wristbands can tighten to compensate. “Thanks for savin’ my life an’ all,” he continues, popping the joints back in with a wince. “Probably saved captain a few years off his too, while you were at it; old git does worry…”

Excellent. He’s ensured the scourge of their skies’ continued longevity. Saal reaches for his stun baton – but Obfonteri catches the movement and, without further ado, bundles the hefty cuffs into a ball and lobs them at his head.

They crack off Saal’s browbone. He goes down with a sputter – but there’s no time for Obfonteri to finish him off, because there’s the groan of a docking ship and the shuttle’s airlock wheel begins to spin. Obfonteri kicks him in the general direction of the bench. “Get under there. Don’t say nothin’. Play dead, yeah?”

Saal has never played dead in his life. He grips his bruised forehead and summons the tooth-grinding memories of every year that he’s wasted languishing as a junior corpsmen, striving for a glimmer of the Prime’s cold approval. “I am a Nova Officer, and I do not negotiate with galactic scum –“

“Play dead if you wanna live,” says Obfonteri simply. Then the airlock opens, and Udonta marches in.

He’s alone. Saal could take them both.

…Or he could follow Obfonteri’s advice. Possibly press a little further into the shadowed cubby beneath the bench. Udonta’s arrow’s out, and he scopes the shuttle in two sharp turns of his head. “Nova Corps?” he barks at his first-mate. Obfonteri answers, efficient and respectful despite his shambled appearance –

“Only one. Already took care of him.”

“Huh.” Surprisingly, the Ravager Admiral takes his word for it. He doesn’t even pause to check whether Saal’s eyes are open, as Obfonteri dutifully motions towards him; instead dropping the fold of his trenchcoat over the dimming arrow shaft and dragging the taller Ravager into a hug. “Nice work, lad. Ya barely needed me to come save your ass.”

Obfonteri stiffens. So does Saal.

“Uh, sir?”

Udonta’s face holds a surprising expression of peace, hooked where it is over Obfonteri’s shoulder; but at Obfonteri’s interruption it turns feral and dangerous. “What’s the matter? You said he was out, right?”

Saal forgets how to breathe. Then Obfonteri awkwardly pats Udonta between the shoulderblades.

“Yes sir,” he lies.

The Ravager captain tightens the embrace until Obfonteri reciprocates. His lanky arms fold over Udonta’s broad back like leathery dragonfly wings, and despite the gut-curdling certainty that _he shouldn’t be seeing this_ , and that men far more valuable have doubtless been shot for witnessing much less, Saal can’t tear his eyes away. “You’re alright. You are alright, ain’t ya?”

Saal thinks Obfonteri might be smiling. “I’m fine. Took ya long enough to find me though, boss.”

“Figured if there was only one heat-signature, the corps’d send a solo operative rather than the whole fuckin’ garrison. This was the simplest way.”

Something about the way Udonta’s holding Obfonteri, snug enough to cut off a few non-vital bits of circulation, informs Saal that while it might have been the ‘simplest way’, it was far from the easiest choice. So much could’ve gone wrong. Obfonteri could have succumbed to the heat, Saal could’ve been any number of the Nova Corps’ lackadaisicals, who would take one look at the Ravager-signature languishing on a savage twilight world, mere hours before its carnivorous inhabitants crawled forth to devour whatever meager fruits the wasteland could bear, deemed it too much effort, and let nature run its course.

It would’ve been easy. Saal could’ve hacked the scanner, destabilized its ion field to mimic the cardiac failure of the subject, then been back at the Nova barracks in time for breakfast while Obfonteri’s remains were stewing in the guts of a desert-dweller litter. Perhaps he should’ve done. Certainly, it would’ve saved him from sitting through _this_.

“Couldn’t just come for ya,” Udonta whispers into Obfonteri’s neck. He’s got big hands, strong-fingered and firm. Built for punching through solid objects and crushing the occasional skull. But Saal thinks he sees them tremble a little as they grip the Hraxian to him, impossibly tighter. “Not with them stakes. Crew wouldn’t stand for it.”

Obfonteri wriggles until Udonta – somewhat sheepishly – lets him gather enough breath to gasp out a reply. “I geddit, sir. Look, yer implant’s diggin’ into my sunburn, can ya just –“

It’s still a surprise somehow, even after everything, when Obfonteri catches Udonta by the blue jaw, lifts his head off his shoulder – the Centaurian’s eyes a little less guarded than usual, a little moister – and kisses the corner of his mouth.

Udonta startles almost as much as Saal. He evidently isn’t too happy about it. Saal knows little about Centaurian culture (it’s hard too, seeing as they’re almost all dead, and conversing with anthropologists isn’t high on Udonta’s to-do-list). But he’d reckon that when your whistles are your greatest weapon, you wouldn’t place much stock by kissing. Add to that that Obfonteri’s been chundering all day, with access neither to toothbrush nor breathmints, and you’ve got a fairly unpleasant situation.

Obfonteri prevents Udonta’s instinctual jerk with a tap to the cheek – “C’mon. Ya owe me this, captain. Just once.”

And, rather than shooting Obfonteri where he stands, Udonta huffs and resettles on his heels, folds his arms, and grumpily juts his chin out so Obfonteri can kiss him properly.

Saal’s head spins – and not only from the turn of events. He can feel the cuff’s imprint, dented into his temple. He’s dropped his shock-stick – it’s rolled to the other side of the cabin, close enough to reach at a rush. But he’ll be facing a lot worse than Obfonteri’s threats of unconsciousness if he stages an uprising now.

Suffice to say, after Udonta pushes Kraglin back on his sickbed and piles himself onto his lap, Saal soon wishes that he’d taken Kraglin up on the offer.

**Author's Note:**

> **Let's just say that this isn't BIOTS-compatible. You'll find out why. ;)**
> 
> **Please leave comments if you liked it! xxx**
> 
> ****


End file.
